


If You're Going Through Hell

by rowofstars



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-03
Updated: 2007-08-03
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>GSR angst galore, the aftermath of Lady Heather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Going Through Hell

**Author's Note:**

> This is a terrible fic I wrote ages ago when I was just getting back into writing fanfic after a very long hiatus. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.  
> This is my first publicly posted fan fic and it didn't end up where it started...if that makes sense. It might suck so read at your own risk. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. No beta, all mistakes are mine.

You roll over to see the alarm clock on the nightstand to see 1:37 glaring back at you in neon green. Three hours and thirty-seven minutes of sleep. Rolling over the opposite direction, you see that the other side of the bed is noticeably vacant and far too neat. Of course the fact that you slept less than seven hours was already enough to know your usual bedmate did not come home. You roll onto your back and stare for a few moments before your view of the creamy white ceiling is obscured by a cold, black nose. A nose perched above a mouth that is drooling slightly and breathing hot air on your face. You push the nose away and sit up against the headboard.

“And where were you last night?” you ask. “You didn’t want to keep me company either?” The response is a large head in your lap looking up with sad puppy eyes. You realize he is wondering the same thing. Where is he? The fact that you know the answer makes your stomach turn. You know he must have spent the whole shift and morning with her. You wish you didn’t know that. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

The cold nose and sad eyes stand up and jump off the end of the bed. Your brain is still foggy as you stand up and pull a t-shirt and gym shorts on, but there is no more sleep for you now.

You leave the bedroom to head for the kitchen, the promised land of coffee. But caffeine will not clear your mind. As you stare out the small window over the sink, the cold nose from earlier suddenly pokes the back of your bare thigh causing the coffee to be unceremoniously spilled down the drain. You must have jumped ten feet, but seeing your confusion mirrored in his eyes prevents the scolding he would have normally received. He knows something is wrong and he’s pretty sure it has to do with Him not being here.

As you walk to the master bathroom it becomes apparent that you are you being followed. He sits in the bathroom doorway and watches you while you try to carry on with your normal routine. In the cheeriest voice you can manage, you pat him on the head and tell him it’s okay but a glimpse in the mirror tells you it’s not. The image staring back is not you. It is some pale shell of a woman with tired eyes. You’ve seen this vision before, the morning after your DUI. It’s the look of defeat. You hate being defeated. Especially by a woman who sells sex with a side order of violence for a living.

The anger that is building has you glaring at his toothbrush while you rinse off yours. For some strange reason you feel a need to destroy that toothbrush and the sickening flavor of coffee and Crest in your mouth isn’t helping. Throwing it in the waste basket beside the vanity helps but it’s not enough. A can of shaving cream from the counter follows the toothbrush and both are joined moments later by his straight razor. This small garbage bag isn’t going to cut it, you think, so you rummage in the hall closet for a bigger one. The cold nose is now long gone as you continue your therapeutic rage. Deodorant, cologne, and comb all meet their fate at the bottom of a Glad drawstring trash bag. Bigger bag, yes, but it's still not going to be enough as you eye your next target – the closet.

The haze is lifting now and your eyes are wide. Flashes of them, together, in her home are before your eyes; her over him and under him. All the places you were the night before and should be tonight. You remember what Catherine said about being the only woman to ever rattle him and wonder if all his shit waiting for him on the front lawn will be enough to move you onto that list. It has to be worth of at least the number two spot.

The white, wire frame closet organizer you both worked to put together makes picking out his things much easier. The trash bag is momentarily forgotten on the floor while you fling shirts and dress pants behind you and onto the bed. Before the pile gets too large something else grabs your attention on the nightstand. It’s a picture in a 3x5 silver frame. Now you’re really mad.

The picture was taken at a celebratory breakfast the day he asked you to stay and be a member of his team. Of course you said yes because there was never a doubt in your mind that you would do anything he asked. If he had asked you for a kidney you would cut it out yourself. And you know he knew it. Now you are thinking maybe he took advantage of that one too many times as he pushed and pulled. It was like one moment you were spinning out of control, speeding towards the ground. Then just before you landed he would pull the last string you had to hold onto and pull you to safety. It makes you feel like a Duncan. The yo-yo, not the donut. Although that’s a fitting analogy too because it certainly hurts like you have a hole right through the middle of your being. You’d like to put a hole through him too. Or better yet hope that one day he’d wake up turned into one of his beloved cockroaches. Then you could hear that satisfying yet vile sound of crunching exoskeleton under the heel of your work boot.

He probably expects you will be here when he finally decides to come home. Oh you will be here all right. You’re staying because you picked the condo out. You even picked out most of the furniture. But fuck if you are going to let him stay. No he can take his shit and go stay in some cheap motel off the strip. Or even better he can go stay with his dominatrix and she can chain him up in her dungeon.

That though makes your empty stomach lurch. You need food if you are going to continue this mission through your own personal hell. Ah, Hell. Yes, you think this must be what Hell is like. The feeling of being empty hurt and used with no one around to care and no way out. Well, you reason, if you’re going through Hell, keep going. Eventually you’ll come out right? There is only so much penance due for your crimes, whatever they may be. You're sure you must have done or not done something to cause this.

You drop the first full bag off by the door to the garage and head for the kitchen again. Unfortunately the refrigerator is pretty empty. Today was supposed to be a day off for both of you. You were going to pick up groceries and weed the flower bed; perfectly domestic and normal. You were never one for being domestic and no one would accuse you of being normal, but he made you feel normal and made you want the simple pleasures of a family you never had. So much for that. You briefly wonder if he would stand in the produce section and carefully select organic tomatoes with her.

You need a shower before you can go out for food, and probably more garbage bags. The man has entirely too much shit to throw out and the thoughts of how you argued over where to put it all when you moved in almost makes you laugh. You adjust the temperature of the water to just under flesh burning and reach for your body wash. The heat is exactly what you need for the newly arrived throbbing in your head. You’re sure the pain is just all the repressed anger trying to force its way out but it’s not long before you can’t hold it in anymore and drop to your knees under the water. Hot tears mix with the soapy water running off your back.

Choked sobs escape your throat despite your best efforts to hold them in. He’s not worth crying over you tell yourself, even though he’s the only one you’ve ever cried for. He was too old for you, too set in his ways. He has never told you he loved you, but you thought his actions were enough. His actions of the passed two days tell you otherwise. She was more important. But you would have liked to hear him say those words just once.

You never notice the bathroom door being flung open or the man who practically ran through it. But he notices you. And he’s noticed the trail of his discarded belongings through the house. With a heavy sigh he pulls open the shower curtain and kneels beside the bathtub to shut off the water. The cold blast of air snaps you back to reality and you try to lunge at him, yet you only succeed in throwing yourself onto him. Half out of the tub, half sprawled on the floor, the water from the shower and your fresh tears soak his shirt. Your earlier rage has taken all your strength, with no food and barely any sleep.

Later, you are still crying on his shoulder, sitting across his lap on the tile floor. Your body is wrapped in nothing but a soft baby blue towel and his arms. “Sara? What…?” he tries to ask. His normally calm and confident voice is now so filled with panic it catches in his throat.

“Why couldn’t you love me?” is all you can manage.

He tilts your chin up and stares at you with shock and confusion. In that moment you realize it never crossed his mind you would think he didn’t love you or wouldn’t come back to you and you feel foolish. He leans his forehead against yours and whispers, “Sara.” In that moment your name is everything – love, hope, home; and somehow you know he could never say her name that way. It's all you need to hear.

_Note: "If you're going through hell, keep going." is my favorite quote by Sir Winston Churchill. And it just fits the week I had._  



End file.
